


His Rite of Kor.

by janboy



Category: League of Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 07:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14539788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janboy/pseuds/janboy
Summary: At 16 years old, every Rakkor must do their Rite of Kor. A fight to the death against another 16 year old to become a true member of the tribe. This is Pantheon's Rite.





	His Rite of Kor.

He woke up drenched in sweat.

It wasn’t a graceful awakening. Pantheon’s eyes snapped open and he felt as though his skin had been set aflame. He grabbed the thin sheet that had been pushed down to his legs and he threw it across the room. His bare chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, Pantheon’s hands pressed against various parts of his torso. There were patches of fire that he felt, it had all felt so real. 

A spear between his ribs, swords plunging repeatedly into his gut and shoulders. His dream. Pantheon felt his blood on his hands, he saw swords and spears protruding from his body, and he remembered looking up from his knees towards his killer, where beneath a Rakkor helmet a sea of faces congealed and meshed from one face to the next.

Eros, Nestor, Lara, Ephios, Astion, Leona.

Pantheon’s head dropped and he held his face in his hands. All his friends, all Rakkor his age. Slowly, his breathing came under his control again and the heated flush of his skin ebbed away. But the slight, uncontrollable, shakes that made his whole body shudder persisted. 

He heard a soft exhale and his head rose. In the doorway to his room stood his mother, Eva. She looked at him, then towards the balled up bedsheet across the room, then back to him. 

“Come, Atreus.” She said softly. Pantheon’s father must not have been home for her to use that name.

“Your Rite of Kor is today.”

The icy snow-melt proved useful that morning. Pantheon splashed water against his face repeatedly, then he stripped down and dumped the basin of cold water over his head. The chills persisted through the shake of his body, but as he dried himself that shaking weakness was replaced by a layer of frost. One that crystallized beneath his skin, calming his mind and numbing those channels of fear and anxiety that ran rampant through him the night before. He carried through with his morning routine with a sole focus on his breathing. He ate, performed light exercises, and donned his armor and helm (plume-less), all while repeating the mantra of inhale, exhale, in his mind.

The trance was broken by his mother. She walked into his room and removed his helmet, her eyes scanned over his room with clear gloom painted across her face. She made eye-contact with her son, then she sat on the edge of his bed with his helmet cradled in her hands. Pantheon sat beside her, the thumb of his right hand idly traced circles over the calloused palm of his left hand. After a few moments of silence, Pantheon spoke.

“Mother I-”

“Quiet, my son,” Eva turned his helmet in her hands so the face of it was towards her, “just listen.”

Pantheon watched her face, he watched as she slowly closed her eyes, and he watched in silence as a single tear crested down her cheek. 

“Does it make me a bad mother to wish you had never grown?”

Pantheon opened his mouth, but even with her eyes closed, Eva rose a hand to quiet him.

“I raised you, I want you to grow into the man you’re destined to become. But I knew from the moment you were born that this day would come.” Eva’s grip suddenly tightened on his helmet, but with another sigh, she opened her eyes and slowly placed the helmet back on Pantheon’s head. She sat back and rested both her hands in her lap to look at him. He was strong for a sixteen year-old. Though he wouldn’t be the tallest Rakkor there was, she knew he more than made up for it with his heart. Eva shifted slightly and reached a hand beneath Pantheon’s thin straw mattress, what she came out with was his journal. 

She flipped through the pages only briefly before she closed the book, “I taught you to think differently, to read and write differently than just what your elders taught you. But today, focus your mind on all the things your father taught you.” Her hand extended and she rested it on Pantheon’s shoulder. Her face remained pensive, but the comforting squeeze she gave before getting back to her feet was enough for him. 

Before Eva fully left the room, she hesitated in the doorway again. She looked over her shoulder and gave him a small nod, “It’s almost time. Your father and I will be there for you.”

Even before Pantheon opened the door to exit his home, he heard the booming rhythm of the Rakkor march. Warriors lined the pathway from the door. Old and young, those that had instructed Pantheon and those he had yet to meet. They all looked towards him with expectant gazes, some were challenging and hopeful, while others showed only pity towards him. Dressed in their armor and thick cloaks, they formed an impenetrable barrier along the way. Pantheon could only walk where they guided him. The only moment which he looked back was when he heard the Rakkor shuffle their feet. With each step he took, with each man or woman he passed, they would fall in behind him in a march. 

There was no way back, there was no getting past them, the only path was forward. 

While most of the sparring and dueling grounds were outside of the Rakkor gates, there was one arena within that was used solely for significant events. Whether that be a challenge for the title of Paragon, or the Rite of Kor. Pantheon reached the arena. It was rectangular, wooden constructs kept the tightly packed sand within the arena’s boundaries. There were long benches that lined the sides of the arena, but all the Rakkor in attendance to the event remained standing. 

Pantheon stepped onto the sand at his side of the ground, and then he waited for the remaining Rakkor to find a place to stand. They completely lined each inch of the arena’s borders. Like sentinels, adults and children stood in complete silence before Pantheon. Pantheon held his breath and finally looked across the way, praying to Targon itself that fate wouldn’t match him against her.

Ephios. He would face him. Pantheon blinked slowly, and he forced himself to hide the heavy sigh of relief that nearly came forth from his lips. 

Ephios was Pantheon’s age. He was two inches taller, but not as broad-shouldered as him. Ephios rarely spoke, but as most Rakkor, his combat skills were trained to be lethal in any situation. 

One red cloak broke from the lines, one from the left and one from the right. Pantheon’s father, Alec, approached him, and across the way he could see the same act being mirrored for Ephios. As Alec approached, Pantheon noticed his father held Pantheon’s spear and shield. The sand was disturbed by his father’s footfalls, like the first tracks across fresh snow, and Alec stood close to his son before extending the two items to him. 

“Pantheon,” he said, nodding his head. 

Pantheon took the shield and spear, fingers habitually squeezing both the metal grip and wooden shaft, he returned the nod but the dip of his head was lower. 

“Father.” 

Alec is an elder on the Rakkor council. He was a ferocious warrior, but now felt his tactical mind served better orchestrating the battlefield rather than spearheading the charge. There was no room for him to show any form of softness or comfort towards his son, not before the Rite. Instead of returning to the place he stood before, Alec walked across the sand to the opposite side, to stand amongst the other elders and beside Ephios’ parents. Pantheon turned his head towards where Alec had stood initially, and he made eye-contact with his mother. She gave him a small, half-smile, and Pantheon noticed another pair of eyes looking directly towards him a few feet from Eva. Leona. Her eyes were wide, piercing, but he couldn’t tell what she was trying tell him through them.

And he didn’t have any time left to search them. 

The current Paragon, a woman named Sotiria, stepped forward and and walked onto the edge of the arena at the midway point of the rectangle. She looked towards Ephios, and he saluted back at her. Then Sotiria turned to Pantheon, and he copied the gesture. After another moment of silence, she rose her spear and slammed the butt of it against the stone ground beside the edge of the arena. 

“Begin!”

He had never taken a life before. Nor had Pantheon truly felt the true touch of fear that came with a brush with death, not even on the grueling hunts that he was sent on before. Where he was taken deep into the forests of Targon, without furs to keep warm nor provisions to last him, only armed with his spear, he was left to survive and bring back game for his tribe. Even on those icy nights where the chill felt as though ridges of ice forced cracks in his very bones, Pantheon never felt as though he would die. 

Now, he raised his shield and let his spear rest on the upper rim of it, poised and pointed straight ahead, Pantheon felt death looming over his shoulder. 

Ephios mirrored his approach. Each step Pantheon took was matched as they neared the center of the arena. As the distance between them shortened to a mere couple of feet, Pantheon saw only focus in Ephios’ face. There wasn’t anger or fear in his eyes, only concentration. As soon as Pantheon stepped into range, Ephios lunged forward and began a viper-like series of strikes. 

Spear lunges from over his shield, from a side-leap, Pantheon took a step back and deflected the blows, but now he was on the back foot. Ephios continued to press. He dashed to the right, from behind his shield he reared his arm back and thrusted it at Pantheon’s side. Pantheon swiped his shield to the right and deflected the blow, and Ephios let his spear’s momentum swing to the side while he flipped the grip and spun on his heel, a reverse strike to bury the weapon in Pantheon’s other side. 

That technique was one he hadn’t seen before, it moved too quick for him to readjust his stance and deflect the blow, so he leapt to the side. He wasn’t fast enough though, Ephios’ dug his spear into Pantheon’s thigh and pinned him mid-leap. Pantheon let out a shout of pain. He brought his shield hand back and thrusted it forward, horizontally at Ephios’ chest. Both their shields met and a sharp ring pierced the air, the force of Pantheon’s attack made Ephios stumble backwards, and in turn he pulled his spear out of Pantheon’s leg, which brought with it another sharp pain that he held in his throat behind clenched teeth. 

Blood coursed down his thigh. Ephios had drawn first blood. Pantheon drew his right, wounded leg, back and stood forward with his left, half-dragging the pain-stricken leg along. 

Still, the Rakkor in observance made no sound. It was an eerie quiet. Never was cheering or boasts encouraged, never in their history. Even though it was a duel, a spectacle at heart, the two participants were both Rakkor, and one of them had to die. Respect prevailed over all else, respect for the fighters and the families of those who watched their loved ones risk their life as part of this tradition. 

Pantheon bent his knees and drove into the ground with his left foot, then he launched himself forward with his shield leading and spear thrusting forward. Ephios just barely rose his block in time to deflect the sudden lunge. 

Pantheon knew his leg was a weakness now. Given enough space, Ephios would exploit it. He had to press, he had to hide the loss of his full mobility behind a close-quarters brawl. One where his spear wouldn’t be as effective.

As Ephios deflected his spear thrust, Pantheon swung his shield-face powerfully into Ephios. He saw the rim of Ephios’ shield slam backward against the front of his helm. The other Rakkor stumbled backward, he brought his arm back and swung in a wide sweep infront of him, solely to create space between himself and Pantheon. Pantheon was forced to take a step back and deflect the blow, and Ephios took that moment to roll backwards and blink the stars from his eyes. 

That was Pantheon’s chance. 

He reared his shield hand back, his wrist rotated, and he flung his shield towards Ephios horizontally, a golden disk careening towards the dazed Rakkor. 

Ephios let out a startled yelp. Pantheon’s shield collided into Ephios who didn’t deflect it in time. The sudden impact knocked his shield from his hand, and both Pantheon and Ephios’ shields fell to the sand. Before Ephios could scramble to recover it, Pantheon reared his spear hand back. 

Rather than adapting to his current state, the rush Pantheon felt made him act instinctually. He anchored in his right foot, right arm drawn back with spear poised to bury itself in the center of Ephios’ chest. But as soon as he put any pressure on his wounded leg, a jolt of pain careened throughout his body and he stumbled forward mid-throw. He fell to the ground, face colliding with the sand and helmet being knocked off from the impact. The trajectory of his spear changed with the fall in his follow-through, and instead of burying itself in Ephios’ sternum, his aim dropped and instead the spear dug itself into the side of the boy’s torso. 

It was then that Pantheon finally heard a noise from the Rakkor watching. It was a gasp, echoed by a handful of them. 

Pantheon pressed his hands into the sand and pushed himself up, shaking his head and spitting sediment out of his mouth. Slowly, Pantheon hobbled towards the curled up Ephios. As he limped forward, a trail of blood followed his dragged leg. 

As Pantheon made eye-contact with the boy, he was met with a wide-eyed stare. Ephios’ lips were parted in a soundless expression of shock. Both of his hands were wrapped around the spear in his side, and slowly blood pooled beneath him. Pantheon looked at his face, then he began to wildly look about him. 

‘What should I do?’

Pantheon looked towards his mother, he saw her shoulders finally drop in a relieved exhale. 

‘He can still be saved, I already won.’

He looked towards Leona. Her hands was over her mouth, and as they made eye-contact she slowly began to shake her head.

‘Do I call for help?’

Then he looked to his father. Beside Alec, Pantheon saw Ephios’ father close his eyes.   
Alec remained impassive, but as he made eye-contact with his son, Alec gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and Pantheon knew what he had to do. 

Painfully, Pantheon bent over and picked up Ephios’ discarded spear. Then, standing as straight-backed as he could, Pantheon looked towards the heavens and and squeezed his hand around the spear shaft. With one thrust, he inserted the spear into the back of Ephios’ head and then pulled it out. 

As painless a death as he could grant. 

He dropped the weapon to the ground and hobbled a few steps towards Eva before he fell to the ground. The Rakkor now broke their line Alec walked with Ephios’ father towards the body, while Eva went and lowered herself to a knee beside Pantheon. She whispered hushed words to him, about his wound and how he felt. Pantheon didn’t respond. He looked over her shoulder and watched as the Rakkor finally dispersed. Some stepped onto the arena to help in the carrying and burial of Ephios, while others walked past Pantheon and gave him small nods. 

There was one Rakkor that didn’t move yet. She stood in place with her hands pulling her cloak over her whole form. When she noticed Pantheon looking at her, she looked away and headed towards her home.


End file.
